


Impressions

by BeansEtc



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeansEtc/pseuds/BeansEtc
Summary: Sometimes it’s the little things like getting ready in the morning that can be the hardest to get just right.  Luckily the Beast has Cogsworth there to help out.





	

He is sleeping, fitfully so, when the sharp knock comes at the closed door, jarring him awake.  The Beast’s first detached thought is to wonder who the devil would be calling on him in the middle of the night, and that something must surely be wrong; followed immediately on the heels by his next thought that someone better had be dead or they would be soon, because there was no other possibly justifiable reason for waking him right now.

There is a breadth of patient silence, just long enough for the mind to sink away once more, and then the knock comes again like a persistent _rap rap rap_ to his brain jolting him back to consciousness, and he forces his eyes open groggily from where he has his head buried in a bunched up pile of mangled blankets.  It is not night after all, but already mid-morning, he registers with a displeased grumble.  The truth of the hour does nothing to improve his mood or lessen the annoyance of the visitor at his door.  He had slept rotten and he resents the intrusion, as he resents the daylight itself pervading his eyes at that moment.

_Rap rap rap._

His ears flatten back in irritation.  Flinging an arm over his head, he rolls over with a low, groaning growl. 

“WHAT?” he bellows gruffly, a question and an indictment all at once, muffled somewhat by the excess fur pressed against his face.

He hears the door crack open and knows but is not surprised by the sound of the light clomping gait that it’s his tight-laced little head of house who has entered to disturb his sleep.

“Good _morning_ , sire,” Cogsworth’s voice trills, endlessly effusive, tirelessly chipper.  “A bit of a late start today, I see, though we all benefit from a good lie-in from time to time — or so I am told.  I trust you slept well.” 

The Beast snorts in response, not bothering to look over from his nest on the floor.  “Cogsworth,” he mumbles against his arm, but the chamberlain is already trundling onward.

“Another pleasant day today.  Clear skies so far, perhaps a slight chance of some light snow in the afternoon, but honestly, who can predict these things for sure?”

“Cogsworth.”

“Regardless, I’ll have the housekeeping staff throw open the windows in the bedrooms in the east wing to begin airing them out.  And the drawing room in the south tower, it always gets so stuffy in the winter season.”

“ _Cogsworth._   What is it that you want?”

The man turned mantle clock is an excellent steward, efficient and meticulous, but he has the tediousness of hauling heavy rocks up a hill.

“Just a few minor updates and household matters I wanted to keep you abreast of, Your Grace,” Cogsworth replies.  “It won’t take but a moment.”

From out of somewhere the stout little chamberlain produces a small rolled-up list, and the Beast sighs when he hears the discouraging flutter of paper as it unfurls out across the floor.  Cogsworth is oblivious to his aversion.

“Right then,” he begins studiously.  “Firstly, I’m pleased to announce that the cleaning of the castle is proceeding swimmingly — the first three floors of the east and west wings have been scrubbed from top to bottom, and received such a proper sprucing that I dare say you’d hardly recognize them as the same rooms that have been hiding derelict under all that dust these years.  The ballroom still has to be done, of course, but that will require a more coordinated effort.  We’re working on assembling some sort of pulley system in order to reach all of those windows. . .  Now, the foliage on the terrace is one thing I need to talk to you about, is that something you’d prefer to be vibrant and flowering, or more understated like —” 

The Beast realizes that without thinking he is already beginning to tune him out, like the chiming of a clock on the hour or the sound of an irritating bird pecking incessantly at a windowpane.  He knows he should probably give more attention to the reports Cogsworth brings him, to listen to what his steward is saying — they are doing all they’re doing for his benefit after all — but whether from sleeplessness or disinterest, at that moment he just can’t bring himself to care.  He’d had little patience or concern for the insignificant minutia that went into the aesthetics of the castle when he had been human, and even less for it now.

“—moving on, you’ll be delighted to know that staff have finally vanquished that troublesome nest of martens that have been chewing and smelling up the cellar.  There was a bit of a scuffle. . . I’m afraid one of the pillows from the paging staff got a little torn up in the process — feathers everywhere — but Mrs. Potts has one of the maids patching him up, don’t you worry —”

On and on he goes, and the Beast has to bite back an agitated rumble.  He drags a heavy, exasperated hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes.  There is an ache starting there at his temples, and he wonders if he could get Cogsworth to finally stop nattering at him if he threw him off the balcony.  It’s an idle, facetious notion, in jest only, but barely.

“— we have also had success in beating back the thorny vines that have been encroaching the west wall.  Oh, they’ve given us a hard run over these past months, to be sure, seemed to grow back faster than we could clear it — but I believe we finally got the last of it now.  Hard grit and a determined spirit, that’s what I like to say —”

An empty, dark room, and silence, that’s what he needs.  All he so badly wants is to just close his eyes, just for a minute, an hour or two more. . .

Finally, after what feels like an age, just when the fastidious little clock man seems to have at last finished rattling off the remainder of his notes and is rolling up his list once more, he adds:  “Oh, and the mademoiselle Belle is waiting outside.”

As if his torso is attached to the end of a fishing line, the Beast springs from laying down to sitting up in an instant.  He blinks.  “What?”

“Belle,” Cogsworth repeats simply.  “On the other side of the door.  She’d like a word.”

There’s a flurry of movement and blankets being thrown back as the Beast hurriedly starts to get to his feet, snatching up the previous day’s shirt from the floor nearby and pulling it over his head.

“Next time, Cogsworth,” he grunts, “it would be fantastic if you could lead with that information.”

“Ah.  Quite right, sir.”

He swears he glimpses the chamberlain’s mouth curve up the barest amount and he shoots him a sharp look over his shoulder as he brushes past.  Hurrying to the other side of room, he lays a clawed hand on the partially cracked door and swings it open all the way to find her waiting there patiently with her hands folded demurely in front of her.

“Morning,” he greets her, slightly breathless.

Belle smiles at him, and suddenly the light doesn’t hurt his eyes so much after all.

“Good morning,” she says, tilting her head.  “I’m sorry. . . did I wake you?”

“No,” he lies.  “I was already —  It’s fine.”

The corner of her eyes crimp up at him knowingly.

She’s wearing a dress of burgundy velvet today, with creamy yellow the color of buttermilk.  A small wicker basket with a tiny paring knife resting inside is hanging from one of her hands, and she has a light fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders.

Belle sees him eyeing the basket and says by way of explanation: “Mrs. Potts told me there’s usually good mushroom picking on the grounds just beyond the castle.  Apparently Chef Bouche makes a delicious chanterelle sauce.”  She looks at him tentatively.  “I was planning on heading out to the edge of the forest this morning to try and collect some for him before the snow sets in again and covers them all up. I was hoping. . . maybe you’d want to come with me. . .?”

“Of course.  Yes,” he replies automatically.  There’s a brief, revealing pause.  “Only — I haven’t actually had a chance to eat anything yet. . .”

“Mrs. Potts still has something laid out downstairs, if you wanted. . .?”

“Yes.  Absolutely.  Uhm —“  He glances awkwardly down, a hand clutching self-consciously at the wrinkled shirt on his chest.  “I just have to get dressed first. . .  Just. . . give me two minutes.”  His head recedes slowly back into the room as a smile pulls at her mouth, and he gently closes the door again.  “Two minutes.”

He covers the span of the room in a few great strides and flings open the doors of the massive ornamented oak wardrobe full of clothes that had been hauled up ever since he had started wearing clothes again.  Instantly he is assaulted with an array of wool and velvet and brocade that he pushes through one by one helplessly.  God, clothes, and the daily grief and stress of choosing what to wear.  All the colors and cuts and weights; he remembers why he abandoned the hassle of them to begin with.

“What does someone wear on an excursion to gather mushrooms?”  There’s a furious note of confusion and frustration to the question as he voices it out loud, quailing before the intimidating expanse of the wardrobe with all the helplessness of a person finding themselves suddenly confronted by too much choice.

From behind him, Cogsworth pipes up from where he’s still standing by the bent and broken remains of the grand bed, rocking back and forth on his stubby wooden legs.

“It is rather mild outside today, Your Grace,” he remarks casually.  “The evergreens are also looking particularly rich and in fine form.”

“Is that important?” the Beast inquires distractedly, rifling back and forth through hangers.

“Only that it can sometimes behoove one to consider the backdrop colors of a certain setting in order to strike the best picture.  And that it could be muddy so it may be prudent to dress accordingly to avoid unsightly stains.”

The Beast considers this, staring somewhat dazedly into the dizzying forest of fabric, before settling on an emerald green waistcoat with gold buttons and a pair of dark brown breeches.

He stumbles a bit in his haste to change, hopping about like a gibbled rabbit as he pulls on his trousers, and fumbling uncommonly in the tricky but long perfected task of navigating his bushy tail through the slit at the back — but after struggling behind him for a second or two he tugs it through, then immediately throws his waistcoat on over his broad shoulders.  He turns to move off.

"Ahh ha... sire?" Cogsworth whiffles suggestively behind him. "A clean shirt?"

"Right." In a rush he quickly shrugs the coat off again, scrambling to claw the wrinkled garment off over his head and then grabbing a fresh linen shirt from a drawer, sniffing it once quickly before pulling it on.  Then he tucks it hurriedly into the waistline of his breeches and finally throws on his waistcoat once more.

He passes by the open wardrobe again without a glance at first, forgoing the idea of a cravat — surely too formal a thing for picking mushrooms, he thinks — then changes his mind and goes back for it, before briefly deciding no yet again and moving off only to then spin back around, a whirling dervish of indecision; until finally grabbing one of the long strips of white muslin hanging on the inside of the door and tying it around his burly neck.

In his hurry, the Beast stops long enough to inspect his reflection in a long, dusty, cracked mirror he had dragged up from another room one floor down a short while back — _him_ , with a mirror — nervously fastening his cuffs and smoothing down the ruff of his mane.  His fur is sticking up in all the wrong places, an unavoidable case of perpetual bedhead that followed each sleep when you had as much hair as he does; but after some frenzied grooming he appears as sleek and unruffled as someone in his circumstances could hope to be. . . and despite all the fur and fangs — though he may be loathed to admit it — looking every bit the prince he in fact is.

For a second only he allows himself to waver: looking himself over critically, adjusting and fussing, tortuously double guessing every decision.  Then he takes a breath, he straightens, and he forces himself to slow down and walk with a calm, measured grace to the door.

He just about makes it there, his hand upon the handle, then stops and promptly forgets all pretense of composure as he abruptly runs back yet again — grabbing a heavy outdoor cape of deep purple velvet and draping it over his arm, before dashing once more towards the door this time with a noticeably hurried excitement to his step.

As he breezes past his chamberlain, the clock man makes a last minute feeble attempt at flagging him down, beseeching: “Sir, about the foliage arrangements for the terrace — if I could just get an answer from you on whether you’d —“

“The details don’t matter to me, Cogsworth, just do whatever you think best,” the Beast replies heedlessly, brushing aside the matter as someone waving away a mote of dust spiraling through the air.

With one final straightening of his waistcoat, he flings open the door again.  Belle is still standing there, as radiant as ever, and as he steps out to join her in the hall she gives him a thoughtful glance up and down, eyeing him with a small little smile on her mouth.  He can feel his ears heat up.

“What. . .?” he asks, a tad self-consciously.  He worries for a moment that maybe he should have chosen a different jacket, or that there’s a stain on his shirt.

“I just really like this color on you, is all,” she says softly, reaching up with one hand and patting the front breast of his waistcoat with a light palm.

He is unable to restrain the relieved, bashful grin that spreads across his face, and the Beast has to fight down the pleasant little swell of tingling warmth and anxiety that has become so commonplace for him these days and threatens to turn his legs to jelly.  With a lightness in his head that hadn’t been there just a few minutes before, he turns and offers his arm out to her.

 

 

Cogsworth leans a gilded shoulder against the door frame and watches them as they make their way off down the hall, smirking wryly to himself and slowly shaking his head.

He hears the unmistakable hopping steps of Lumière’s approach before he sees him — the maître'd must have come up to the landing without the Master even noticing, an ode if anything to their lord’s current single-minded state, considering how loud the candelabra usually is — and as the sharp-nosed host comes up beside him, the chamberlain lifts his chin after the disappearing pair.

“It’s like watching a spring cockerel primping and preening for its first trip to the hen house,” he observes dryly.

Lumière chuckles and delivers a good humored jab to Cogsworth’s shoulder.  “Ah, he’s young still, mon ami.  You remember what it’s like.”  The waxen eyes cast a shrewd look towards him.  “Or you might if you hadn’t surely been such a stodgy, wound up fusspot then as you are now, yes?”

Cogsworth ignores the jibe.  The truth is that he knows better than most the necessity and demand of sculpting a good impression — he lives his life day-to-day by it.  What some may mistake for nit-picking, he calls a scrupulous attention to detail.

That’s what other people didn’t fully appreciate: presentation was everything.  It is why he insists on nothing less than perfection from each individual and task he oversees, from clearing the cobwebs from the corners of the stairwells, to managing the monumental operation of the cleaning of the ballroom: every inch of towering glass would be scrubbed spotless, the crystal chandelier polished until it sparkles like diamonds, the marble floor must positively gleam.  Because things like that mattered, he knew.  The details always mattered.  Letting nature take its course was all fine and good in the grand scheme of things, but it was the thoughtful care to add that subtle pinch of spice to the cake that made you wanting to go back for more.  They were what set the tone, cemented the memory.  It’s what made the difference between companionship and romance.

And if nobody else was going to bother with the painstaking attention and effort that went into orchestrating those details, then the responsibility fell to him — and fortunately, attention to detail is something that Cogsworth is very, very good at.

He hears a commotion far down the corridor, and a moment later from around the corner comes a parade of enchanted servants ready to work now that their master is finally awake and away.  Rags and linen baskets and brooms and dustpans file past him one-by-one, ushered by Lumière into the room beyond.  The Master doesn’t normally allow for his chambers to be cleaned, but what His Grace doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and Cogsworth has found that as long as they don’t clean too fast or too much all at one time he never seems to notice.  Besides which, the subconscious feeling of not living amid filth and the wreckage of his own past always inevitably helps in improving his mood.

As Cogsworth’s line of sight follows the queue as they break off and go to work, his gaze falls on the rose and lingers there thoughtfully.  _Surely not roses for the terrace,_ he thinks, _that would be tasteless._   It’s a pity though, that such a fine flower would forever be marred from this point on.  _Perhaps some wisterias instead?_

Beside him, Lumière mistakes his look for melancholy and slings a bolstering brass arm around the steward’s shoulders, turning him away from the room and back out to the hallway once more.

“There is still time, my friend,” the maître'd assures confidently in a low tone.  He gestures hearteningly off in the direction where Belle and the Master had disappeared arm in arm, with another light chuckle.  “He’s doing fine, don’t worry.”

_Worry?  Was he worried?_

And as Cogsworth turns to head back into the room and oversee the tidying of broken heirlooms and laundering of yesterday’s strewn about clothes, for the first time in many long, long years, he realizes he can honestly say he’s not.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd give the Beast a break and finally write him in something where he's not so angsty. Unless you count stressing over getting dressed for a pretty girl angst, in which there's simply no hope for the guy.
> 
> This fic is a little bit fluff and a little bit love letter to all of the brilliant animators who worked on the movie and breathed so much humanity and life into these characters in the smallest of ways. Seriously, it's those tiny details that make all the difference.
> 
> Thanks to TrudiRose for the beta read!


End file.
